Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (10 page)

The Cheshire Cat's Eye: Larry French had once possessed it; with Charmaine's help, Prince Albert had copied it; and, last night, my unknown assailant had seized it. Were these people linked together only by their interest in a Tiffany lamp? Or was there a stronger connection? Determining that would involve a risk, given the warning I'd received, but it was one I'd have to take.

The weather served to minimize my danger. I took a floppy-brimmed rainhat from the back of the MG and pinned my hair high on my head before I stuffed the hat over it. If my attacker was on the lookout for a woman with long black hair, he wouldn't see her.

I parked on Steiner Street, across from Wintringham's houses, and hesitated, contemplating the locked glove compartment. Finally I took out the .38 Chiefs Special that rested there, loaded it, and slipped it into the outer compartment of my shoulder bag. I approached Johnny Hart's Kansas City Barbecue from the rear.

The proprietor was in the kitchen, lighting the gas fires under the big vats of sauce. He frowned, not recognizing me when I came in. I took off the hat and shook out my hair.

"Oh, it's you." He turned back to his sauce pots. "That a disguise or something?"

"Yep, it's all part of being a private eye." I studied the set of his shoulders, the steadiness of his hands.

"Huh." Hart flicked a drop of water into the deep-fat fryer. It popped and crackled. He didn't look or sound like a man who had been surprised by someone whom he'd hired a thug to rough up.

I sat down at the chopping block, feeling suddenly queasy from tension and the smell of stale grease.

Hart glanced at me. "You all right?"

"I'll be fine."

"Can I get you something to speed up this fineness?" His words were mocking, but he flashed a yellow-toothed smile.

"Do you have any milk?"

"One milk coming up." He turned to the stainless-steel refrigerator. "Big, tough private eyes always drink milk?"

"Only when they can't get Kool-aid."

Hart set a glass in front of me, and I drank half of it quickly. My queasiness subsided, and I sipped the rest.

"Now," Hart said in a low voice, drawing up a chair, "let's cut the smart talk and get down to business. Why're you here?"

The wary currents of racial distrust stirred once more. I sensed Hart didn't want to like me because I was white and excused it by reminding himself of my Indian ancestry. Unfortunately, I was too middle class for the excuse to have much validity.

"I'm here because I need more information."

"I gave you enough of that on Saturday."

"It was enough then, not now."

"Girl, I ain't got no more to give you."

"Not even about who you hired to rough me up?"

Hart's face was impassive, but he leaned back in his chair and regarded me silently for a minute. "You dreaming, girl."

"Am I? Let me tell you about my adventure last night." I recounted my struggle in the alley.

When I had finished, Hart stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So because this person was black, you think I was behind it."

"You. Or Dettman."

Hart looked genuinely offended. "I don't beat up on women or tell anybody else to do it for me."

"Then that leaves Nick."

Hart sighed, staring off beyond me. "All right, but don't you ever let on that I was the one told you. There's a dude in the neighborhood name of Raymond, only everybody calls him Raymond-the-Hit-Man."

"Hit man!" My voice rose.

"Hush." Hart held up a cautioning hand. "Raymond don't hit much; when he tries he usually misses. But he does fix things. You know, you want a debt collected, call Raymond. You want to even a score, Raymond's your man."

"I get it. So, if Dettman wanted to get me, Raymond's the one he would have used."

"Yeah." Hart looked uncomfortable. "Saturday, when Dettman had me deliver that message to you, he was in here looking for Raymond. Raymond, he's hard to find, don't have no regular address, so when you want him, you pass the word around."

"What does this Raymond look like?"

"He's… well, hell, you've seen him."

"When?"

"The night you and your white lawyer friend were here. He's the dude in the leather coat who came in and told me about the murder."

I recalled him, both from then and also from outside Nick Dettman's storefront the next night. "When did Raymond get Dettman's message?"

"I delivered it late Saturday afternoon when he came in for a couple of beers."

So our paths had crossed immediately before Dettman had put out his contract—or whatever you might call it—on me. Dettman had tried to warn me off peaceably, but he already had Raymond lined up as backup. Or had he had more than one job for the "hit man"?

"Is Raymond likely to come after me again?" I asked Hart.

He shrugged. "Depends on how bad Dettman wants to get rid of you."

"Would Raymond actually kill me?"

"Well, he ain't no virgin when it comes to offing people, that's the rumor. But he don't do it for kicks. Dettman would have to pay him plenty."

"Good lord." I stood up, glad of the weight of the gun in my bag. Until I'd exhausted all possible leads, I'd steer clear of Dettman and this part of town.

"Of course," Hart added ruminatively, "like I said, Raymond ain't too good a shot. If you don't get close to him, you shouldn't have any trouble. You got a gun?"

"Yes."

"Keep it handy."

I patted my bag. "Don't worry. What do I owe you for the milk?"

Hart grinned. "Guns and milk. What a way to live. Forget the money; it was worth it to get a look at the private life of a private eye."

"Thanks." I handed him one of my cards. "If you hear any more about Dettman's plans for Raymond, give me a call, will you?"

He glanced at it. "I'll be in touch."

When I peered through the grimy window of Prince Albert's shop, I saw him bent over a piece of machinery at the rear. I stepped inside. Prince Albert looked up, and his face took on a cornered expression. No doubt Charmaine had called to warn him about our conversation.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"My, my. I thought when the show was over you were going to demonstrate the tricks of your trade for me."

"I'm busy now. I told you to call first."

"Sorry, I forgot. If you don't want to discuss making light fixtures, we can talk about some property you misplaced."

"Misplaced? Misplaced what? Where?"

"You remember the dumpster on Franklin Street, and the one on…"

Anger contorting his puckish features, he slammed down the screwdriver he held. I thought how a blow like that could easily crush a man's skull. Or mine, for that matter.

"Look," he said, "I've had enough of your sneaking around and spying on me." He advanced, forcing me back toward the door. "Get out of here."

On the sidewalk, I stood my ground. "I'm out, but this is as far as I'm going."

He looked around in desperation. The only spectator was a child riding a tricycle down the middle of the wet street.

"All right!" Prince Albert exclaimed, slamming the door of the shop. "Then
I'll
go!" He strode down the sidewalk toward Sixth Street.

I tagged along in his footsteps. "One of the lamps you threw into the dumpster had to be the original. There were three replicas, and one of those got broken when Jake was killed."

Prince Albert turned right on Sixth.

"Part of that replica was my clue, which you dropped in the Bay. I don't suppose you know where the rest of it went."

He went into a corner grocery store.

"When you realized the lamps had something to do with the murder, you went to Eleanor van Dyne. Then you disposed of them. What did she tell you?"

He stopped in front of the refrigerated case and plucked out a six-pack of beer.

"What's van Dyne's role in this?"

At the deli case, he grabbed a salami and some cheese.

"Why'd you go to see her when you should have been at the trade show?"

He flung some money down at the checkout stand and stamped through the door.

"What would van Dyne know about the Cheshire Cat's Eye?"

He turned back toward Natoma Street.

"Why'd you go see her, Prince Albert?"

He turned, waving the salami aloft. "You and your fucking questions! Leave me alone!"

Two children in yellow rain slickers pointed and giggled at the funny man with the sausage. Prince Albert glared at them and then at me.

"Why?" I repeated.

"Oh, Jesus." His voice broke, and it came out almost a sob. "All right. I went to see her because I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

We began walking down Natoma Street. "Well, Jesus, there I was reproducing the damned things, displaying them in public! I even had one at the trade show. Do you think I wanted to get mixed up in a murder rap?"

"If you didn't, why did you reproduce the lamp in the first place?"

"Because I didn't know…" He stopped under the overhang in front of the shop. Water dripped onto the pavement. "Look, let me start from the beginning. I told you Jake came in here the day he was killed. It was the first time he'd been in for a while, and I showed him the original Tiffany. I thought he'd be impressed at the deal I got, but instead it upset him. He wouldn't say why, but he asked if he could borrow one of the copies. I hated to let it out of my hands, but Jake was a good friend. Anyway, when he turned up dead and you came around with that metal piece, I panicked. I pulled the copy off the floor at the show and the next day I went to ask Eleanor if she'd ever seen or heard of the lamp. I figured it had something to do with the Wintringhams, since Jake was killed in their old house. Because the lamp was so unique, I knew Eleanor would recognize it from a description, if she knew it."

"I take it she did."

"Yes. I believed her; she would know. She told me how it had been stolen when the old man was killed. She got all excited, and I had to swear her to secrecy. I really didn't figure she'd talk about it, though. She has her reasons to stay out of it."

"What reasons?"

Prince Albert shook his head. "Anyway, then I was really panicked. I decided, valuable or not, I had to get rid of the things. And I did, except…" He glared accusingly at me.

"Where did you find the original?"

"Junk shop, about six months ago."

It tallied with Charmaine's account, but had the decorator called and briefed him? I'd have to check it out. "Which one?"

"A place down on Salem Street. I was looking for a stove, a goddamned stove, and this lamp turned up instead. The old guy who runs the place didn't know it was valuable, I guess. Or maybe he didn't care. I bought it for a hundred bucks. Now I wish I'd never seen the damned thing."

Salem Street. I knew it well. "What's the name of the store?"

He frowned. "I don't remember. A big old guy runs it. A guy with long gray hair."

"Does he wear army fatigues and a sheepskin jacket?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Very well." It was my friend Charlie Cornish. I could count on him to give me the straight story; he kept records of what he bought and sold.

Prince Albert looked eagerly at me. "Then you can check it out. Maybe he'll remember me."

It was not the response of someone who was lying. I studied the lampmaker. In spite of his suspicious behavior, the story had the ring of truth.

"All right," I said, "I'll check. If it's true, good. If not, I'll tell the cops. Don't try to run, because it won't do you any good."

A sheepish smile spread over Prince Albert's face. "Don't worry about me running."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You've seen my truck. That old heap wouldn't take me across the Bay Bridge."

A phone call to Charlie Cornish's junk shop got me a recording. The number had been changed. So he had already moved from Salem Street. The area, once an enclave of secondhand shops, was being razed in the interests of urban renewal. Charlie's new store was on Valencia Street, in the Mission District, not far from my own apartment.

When I arrived, the storefront was bustling with activity. Movers unloaded furniture and crates and hauled them inside. The only thing that reminded me of Charlie's old shop was his scarred oak desk—and Charlie himself, who sat in his swivel chair directing operations. From the back of the store came a shrill barking voice that could only belong to Charlie's new partner, Austin Bigby.

Charlie's eyes brightened when he saw me. "It's about time you paid me a visit!"

I smiled. It had been three months or more since I'd seen the big junkman, but it seemed longer. We'd had daily contact while I was investigating a murder on Salem Street.

Charlie pulled a straight chair out of the jumble and offered it to me. I sat, regarding him fondly. "I guess I'm your first customer."

"Sure are. Can I sell you something?"

"The answers to a few questions."

"Up to your old tricks, huh?"

"Yes."

Charlie was silent for a moment, glowering at a mover who lowered a crate to the floor with a thud. "You still seeing the lieutenant?"

Why did all my male friends have such concern for my love life? "Now and then."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic."

I frowned.

"Sharon, the lieutenant's a good-looking man. You could do worse."

"You sound like my mother."

"You should listen to your mama."

"I do, long distance on the phone every week. Now about those questions…"

"Set that down over there," Charlie called to one of the movers. To me, he added, "You really can't get decent help nowadays. They already broke the glass on a jukebox, and Austin's fit to be tied."

"I can hear him."

"Someday he's gonna have a stroke if he keeps it up," Charlie said. "Then I'll be stuck alone with all this junk." He grimaced, but I knew it was only for show. Junk was Charlie's life.

I said, "What I want to ask you is about something of real value."

"I don't know, Sharon." He ran his fingers through his gray mane. "Maybe you better ask Austin; he's the expert."

"This is something you sold on Salem Street, around six months ago. An old lamp with an unusual shade, made to look like a Cheshire Cat hiding in a tree."

Charlie's little eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I remember it. Fellow that bought it was real excited. I knew it was valuable, but what the hell. He really wanted it bad."

Charlie, in spite of appearances, had done well in his business. He could afford an occasional burst of generosity. "What did the guy look like?" I asked.

He grinned. "Weird, but we've got more than our fair share of those in this town. Wore a top hat and a velvet coat. Had floppy ginger hair that kept falling out from under the hat. The only thing that would have improved the get-up was if he'd had a pair of those turned-up shoes with bells on the toes."

I chucked, imagining Prince Albert's outrage could he hear. "That's my man."

"What'd he do, kill somebody?"

"I doubt it." I really did, now. "Listen, Charlie, in your records is there any way of telling when and from whom you bought that lamp? And if you bought anything else with it?"

"Sure, but finding out will take time; my file cabinet's still on the truck. I can tell you one of the other things I bought with it, though." He rubbed his chin and regarded me slyly. "Sure is a funny coincidence."

"What is?"

"Well, you come in here and ask about that lamp. That's not unusual; you ask a lot of questions. But for you to come in the day after the guy did—"

"What guy?" I exclaimed.

Charlie leaned back in his swivel chair, obviously pleased at surprising me. "Yesterday afternoon, while I was packing all this stuff up, a fellow came into the shop. I told him I was closed, it was Sunday, but he wouldn't listen. Pushy fellow."

"Describe him."

"Short and stocky. Turned-up nose like one of those ugly dogs. Sort of hip. Might have been a rock star—or an accountant trying to look like one."

French. Our paths were crossing.

"Anyway," Charlie went on, "he asked about the lamp, same as you. Then he asked if he could look around. Hell, it was easier to let him wander than to throw him out. Finally he bought this pressed-glass bottle. Because he'd asked about the lamp, it occurred to me that the bottle was one of the things I'd bought with it."

A pressed-glass bottle. Some bottles and flasks had been taken at the time of Richard Wintringham's murder.

"Did you look up who you'd bought it from for him?"

"No. He wasn't interested in that. What he was interested in was the lamp."

That meant he probably knew who had sold the bottle to Charlie. French, in spite of his off-the-wall manner, kept a careful eye on what went on around him. "How long before that file cabinet comes off the truck?"

Charlie glanced at me curiously. "God knows, what with the way these fellows work. It's important, huh?"

"Very."

"I'll see if I can hurry them up. Why don't you run down the street and pick us up a couple of burritos?"

It was a good way to pass the time. I walked two blocks to a take-out place and stood in line listening to salsa music and stacatto Spanish voices. When I returned with two bean burritos and Cokes, Charlie was on the sidewalk, berating the moving men. They had the filing cabinet halfway out of the truck and looked like they might drop it.

"Come on inside," Charlie told me. "I can't stand to watch."

We went back to his desk and ate our lunch. As we finished the movers struggled in with the cabinet and deposited it near the door.

"Morons," Charlie muttered. "Right where it'll block traffic. I'm not gonna bother them about it, though. I'd rather animal it around myself than watch them operate."

He produced a key ring and opened the cabinet. "Let's see. Six months ago. I didn't have that lamp for long. I'll start eight months back and work forward." He burrowed into the top drawer.

I felt a rush of disappointment. "Are you sure you bought it that recently?"

"No longer than a year."

It didn't fit with the timetable of Richard Wintringham's murder. I hoped Charlie was wrong.

He rustled through the papers for a few minutes, then pulled one out. "Yep. Early October, last fall. The fifth. I bought the lamp, some bottles, and a clock. Clock didn't work, but it sold fast anyway."

"Does it say who you bought them from?"

"Yep."

Excited, I reached for the piece of paper he held. "Who?"

He handed it to me. "Take it easy. You'll have a stroke like Austin's gonna."

I scanned the receipt. The name—Bob Keefer—was unfamiliar, but it was a name, with a phone number and an address. I copied them into my notebook.

Charlie replaced the receipt in his file. "This fellow who sold me the stuff—is he the killer?"

"What makes you think there is one?"

"I know you."

"I see. Do you remember what the man looked like?"

Charlie shook his head. "This business, you get so many people who wander in off the street with stuff. It's like the pawnshop business: one rundown soul after another."

I glanced at his hodgepodge of old stoves and tattered furniture and wondered, as I often had, why Charlie had made dreary objects his life's work. But then, to him, junk was not merely junk, but treasure to be recycled.

The movers were hauling in a refrigerator, and Charlie turned to them. "You bust the freon tube in there, and you've damned well bought you a 'fridge!"

I made for the door, waving good-bye to him. He wouldn't mind my abrupt departure. He knew I'd return eventually with the whole story and a jug of his favorite California mountain red.